


Lenore

by LunaStellaCat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 07:22:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10432200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaStellaCat/pseuds/LunaStellaCat
Summary: A woman saves "Mad-Eye" Moody.





	

Alastor Moody, Auror of five years, needed a female partner. Female Aurors were scarce, so he was forced to consider recruits that had just completed training and were ready to be assigned their first official cases. He’d examined the files of the three potential partners and chosen James, a blonde who was tall and strong, even though she was engaged and might already have a foot out the door. There was something about her—maybe her big nose—that made him think she wouldn’t shake like a leaf or talk too much. 

When the recruits filed into the Ministry canteen for a celebratory breakfast, he followed and cut in front of James. He placed two plates onto a tray and loaded them up with this and that. The girl, probably thinking she was getting hazed or else was the butt of a joke, followed him without question: a good sign. Once he got to the end of the line, Alastor jerked his head towards her and pointed at the wall. 

Whoever organized this get-together never planned it out too well because there were never enough seats at the table. The woman, James, got the hint, but said she wasn’t hungry. 

 

“Here.” He handed her the tray anyway. “I did this because I need a favor, and I needed to get your attention.” 

“You could’ve just asked,” she said, helping herself to silverware and digging into the food. So much for not being hungry. She waited. When Alastor said nothing and stood there holding his own plate like a statue, she said, “Use your words.” 

“When I’m ready,” he said, eating his own food. He spread scrambled eggs onto his toast. “What’s your first name, James?”

Not that he planned to use it, but it was information a partner should know. She nibbled her toast and said her name was Lenore. Alastor nodded, wanting to cut through the small talk and get to the point. He’d taken on an assignment without thinking it through. Robards was smart, but he wasn't the sort of person he needed at the moment, and he certainly wouldn’t be flattering in a dress. “I need a wife.” 

“Goodbye.” Lenore scraped her plate and added to the pile of dirty dishes. She walked off. “You’re following me.” 

“Yes.” Alastor stopped when she stopped. When she started walking again, he did, too, careful to stay at least three paces behind. Lenore threw up her hands when she realized he followed her into the Atrium. “I’ve been watching you.” 

“Stop talking.” Horrified and appalled, Lenore glanced around at the people milling around the place. 

What was he missing here? Alastor had never dated when he was in school because he had one goal in mind. He was the only son of John and Diana Moody, Aurors, and he was always going to be an Auror too. It hadn’t been easy, although people probably thought he got a smooth ride in his own qualifications. He hadn't had many friends. His parents had raised him not to trust people because people stabbed you in the back. Outside of his mother’s ears, and they weren't bad ears as ears went, Alastor thought he passed for all right. 

“You’re clever,” he told James. “You think on your feet because you made it through that obstacle course in seven minutes last night. Who else would have thought of picking up a crossbow? You did.” Alastor nodded when she turned around. When she started walking back towards him, he played all this back through his mind. What had he said right? He needed this for future reference. “You want field experience?” 

“Stop stalking me,” said James. He handed over a file and waited for her to read through it. Although she was relatively new to this, she got it after a quick read. Alastor knew this because he quizzed her and threw nit-picky nonsense at her on purpose. He introduced himself and offered her his bruised hand. 

James said, “I know who you are. When you actually do manage to get a wife, Mr. Moody, which is probably wishful thinking, talk to her.” 

“I don't believe in marriage. I need an Auror partner to act as my wife.” Uncomfortable with her stare, he said, “Lenore is an unusual name. I like ƒit.”

“Thank you,” she said. “My father loves Poe. Poe’s a writer.” 

He smiled when she did a double take as he recited a stanza of “The Raven” from memory. “Didn’t know I knew that, did you?” 

She asked him to recite the whole thing. 

“Yeah, that’s not happening. You want field experience? Yes or no?” 

James hesitated.

“What? You have to get the fiancé’s permission?”

“No. I mean, yes, I’ll be your partner.” 

Alastor nodded. “Let’s go, then.”

“Now?” 

He strode toward the fireplaces tied to the Floo Network. “I’ll explain on the way.”

 

They went back to the cheap hotel in the early evening. As operations went, this was rather routine, but Alastor had to remember this was her first time. He usually operated on his own, It was simply easier because the job got done. When they turned onto Knockturn Alley, James seemed like she wanted to pull out. The key got stuck in the door. James, impatient, kept checking over her shoulder every minutes. 

“There.” Alastor opened the door after slamming his shoulder into it. The room, filled with sparse furniture, had a wardrobe, two end tables, a couple mismatched armchairs and a bed. Water stains spotted in the corners. “Welcome home, James.” 

Before they had arrived here, she’d grabbed a rucksack with the basic necessities. They kept these in stock, though he’d told her to head home if she needed anything special; she needed to pack light. Alastor, always ready to go at a drop of a hat, kept a rucksack in his cubicle. 

She stepped into the bathroom, and he cast simple spells around the perimeter. They weren’t acting as Muggles. When she started screaming bloody murder, Alastor dashed into the bathroom, wand aloft, and nearly tore the bathroom door off its hinges. 

James screamed in the shower when he hexed a towel and pulled the shower curtain back. “What the hell? Get out!” 

“Yeah.” This scarred him deeper than her. 

Alastor cast a hand over his eyes and bounced into the pedestal sink. Apologizing, he asked her what was wrong. When she said there was a dead spider in the shower, he rolled his eyes and stepped outside. Didn't she handle spiders in Potions classes? When she came out dressed in a plain dress, he pretended to make the bed. 

“You can get it now,” she said, drying her hair with a towel. As Alastor passed her, he caught the scent of lemons in her hair. “And I’m locking the door.” 

He picked up the dead spider with two fingers and tossed it in the wastebasket by the sink. Crisis averted, he went back into the bedroom, grabbed his rucksack, and unpacked. She’d already done this with her things. When he stepped back into the bedroom, he told her to take the bed. 

“Okay,” said James, not arguing the point. He hadn't expected her to. She sat on the bed, and the bedsprings groaned at the slightest touch. When he cracked a joke about sex being no secret with this bed and these walls, she paled. “I’m not sleeping with you.” 

“Nope. Wouldn’t want to upset that fiancé of yours.” Alastor conjured a lumpy sleeping bag and set up his sleeping spot. He spotted a battered case standing in the corner. “Is that yours?”

“Yes. It’s a violin.” 

She lay on the bed and punched the pillow. They said nothing for a while, and she asked him if she could play to mask the sounds next door. The candles had been extinguished, but Alastor imagined her beet red face when the lady friend next door moaned in pleasure. When James started to play, she sat on the edge of the bed. 

“When you start to play that thing?” Alastor understood next to nothing about music, but even with his untrained ears, he knew she played exceptionally well. 

“When I was five,” she said, setting it aside when their neighbors rapped on the wall. Alastor rolled his eyes and waved at her, telling her to play as long as she wished. 

“Five.” He closed his eyes. “Are you a prodigy, Miss James?” 

She wrapped up an upbeat tune and set the instrument aside when things had quieted down. She said no, though the way she said it with a shaky chuckle made him think this was untrue. Alastor didn’t press the matter. As she relit the candle and started reading a cheap paperback , he opened his eyes and stole a glance. It was no wonder she was off the market, he thought, for she had a nice face even with that nose. 

There was a knock on the door. James escaped onto the bathroom and changed into her nightgown, and Alastor, chuckling, went to answer the door. He backtracked, and kicked the sleeping bag under the bed to cover his tracks. Had he forgotten to pay his tab? James had chosen not to have a drink at the bar. 

“Mr. Dixon,” said the old landlady. She apologized for the late hour and checked the room. Alastor blocked her path and decided against this move because it wasn’t his place; he merely rented it. He tried and failed to act casual. “Where’s your wife?” 

“Oh. She’s …” Alastor hesitated, and James climbed back into bed. 

James called for him. He smiled, thinking this ought to be good, and invited the landlady inside. Granted, they posed as dirt poor newlyweds, but they were newlyweds all the same. The landlady shuffled inside nervously and asked why they were not in bed. Alastor meant to say that he went to fetch the door, but he realized James was on the wrong side of the bed. The other side was against the wall.

“What do you have for me, ma’am?” Alastor took an owl and climbed into the bed as James sooted over. As the landlady turned to leave, he felt James’s silk nightgown and whispered in her ear, hoping their unexpected visitor was deaf. “Kiss me.” 

James hesitated too long. Alastor pressed his lips against hers and went back for more when their lips parted. The landlady said she'd be downstairs if they needed anything. When the landlady said goodnight and closed the door, James kissed him back and played with his hair. Alastor had never done this before, but it somehow felt wonderfully familiar. He cleared his throat and stroked her face. 

“Miss James.” He got to his feet and fumbled around for the sleeping bag. 

“You can’t…” James took a shuddering breath and patted the mattress. “What if she comes back? Hide the sleeping bag.” 

Her clipped tone sounded businesslike. He argued that he’d be able to hear someone coming, but James insisted he get in the bed. After stowing the sleeping bag away again, Alastor laid down next to her. James turned towards the wall. Alastor handed her the paperback, but she said she didn't want it. 

He heard her sniff. 

“James, I’m sorry.” Alastor didn't exactly know why he apologized. 

“It’s fine. Go to sleep.” She patted him on the arm and wiped her eyes. 

“Yeah.” 

She fell asleep next to him. Alastor, wondering if he was such a bad kisser, lay awake. Would he be this awful with all women? Did everyone remember their first kiss, or would it not matter after a while? Maybe it wasn't his fault. She was promised to another man. Thinking he could use a nightcap, Alastor got up and pulled on his dressing gown. Alastor almost woke her to tell her he'd be right back, but what was the point? 

He went downstairs. The landlady, whatever her name was, gave him a smile. It didn't reach her eyes. Muttering about wiping down the counters as the floors mopped themselves, she offered him a drink.

"Yes, please," he said. 

When she chuckled about marital problems, she flashed another smile, and he noticed her sharp teeth. Alastor shrugged, for he had nothing to add. He was merely here as a lookout to hopefully catch whoever had been behind the recent disappearances. 

She placed a thick shot glass on the counter. Alastor turned, for he heard someone coming downstairs, and the landlady muttered something about mood swings. He turned towards her, laughing, saying his wife wasn't pregnant. Next moment, he caught the drink in the face! Surprised, he threw his hands up, but it was too late. It stung before it burned through his skin. Crying out, he slammed onto the floor and rolled around like a man on fire. 

A jet of light shot over him, but Alastor couldn't think straight. He didn't grab his wand. Glass shattered and the woman fled her own establishment; Alastor saw her slippers. The liquid, acid, seeped through his pores and ate through his skin. 

"Oh, my God." James crawled over to him on all fours. 

When she made to touch him, Alastor hissed at her like an angry cat and backed away. It dripped down his neck. For the first time in his life, Alastor took a sharp breath in and begged for death. His tears did nothing to dull or ease the pain. All went dark. 

 

The body forgot pain because the brain blocked it. He'd heard this before, yet Alastor had never appreciated it much until it worked in his favor. Over the next few days, or perhaps it was longer because he couldn't tell time, he slipped in and out of consciousness. Why fight sleep? One day, though he didn't know whether it was day or night, someone asked after his wife.

Confused, Alastor denied he had any wife. "Who?"

"Me." James held his bandaged hand. The Healer said James, who he called Colleen, had barely left his side. 

"Colleen," Alastor croaked, for he hadn't used his voice in a long time. 

He'd forgotten this was the name she'd chosen. He was Richard Dixon, an alias created and handed down by the senior Aurors. They had him in a private room, and when he asked why, the Healer mentioned it reduced the risk of infection. He'd suffered through a nasty infection already. His face no longer burned, but it itched terribly. 

His parents wouldn't be here because it risked blowing their cover and the entire operation. James asked to be alone. When the Healer insisted they needed cleanse the skin again to get to the healthy layers beneath, Alastor raised one of his bandaged hands and and imagined tapping the outside of an orange with a butter knife.

"Wait. You're actually peeling my skin back?" Alastor heard the fear leak into his voice. He hated it. 

"We have to get through the bad to get to the good," said the Healer, sounding like he'd explained this over and over again to someone else. Alastor said no. The Healer switched to a steelier tone and reminded him of the importance of time. "It's one last treatment, Mr. Dixon." 

"All right. Give us a moment, please. I want a moment with my husband," said James, stronger when the Healer rebuked her. She left. James pulled up a chair, still holding his hand. She kept up the act because the Healer probably stood outside the door. When she reached out to touch him, he screamed so loudly James backed off like a frightened little girl. "I...I'm not leaving you, Richard, because you can't do this alone." 

"Go to hell," he spat. Alastor knew it wasn't her fault, but she could've gone downstairs with him. She'd could've done something. What did the undercover assignment matter at this point? "Go back to your fiancé and make babies, miss." 

She wasn't cut out for this, and he'd been stupid to fall for some girl for her looks. James wiped her eyes, though her tears did nothing for him. She got up, swung her pocketbook over her shoulder, and wished him luck as she headed towards the door. Alastor spotted her I.D. badge with its moving picture on the bedside table. He went to grab it without thinking, he forgot his hands were useless, and knocked the thing onto the floor. 

"Colleen." He smiled when he said it, despite the fact that it hurt like hell. He'd spotted it as her middle name on the I.D. badge. "That's not a stretch, Lenore Colleen." 

James marched back over to him, her hand outstretched, thinking he had it before she picked it up. There was a knock on the door and the Healer had returned with reinforcements. Stowing her card back into her bag, she sat back down and crossed her long legs. Her fiancé, Alastor imagined, though he knew nothing about this, would have a difficult time breaching through her defenses. 

"When some idiot pulls me off on a mission at a moment's notice," she said softly, running her fingers through his hair. The Healers, busy with gathering their tools, heard none of this. Alastor liked her touch; it calmed him. Imagining her kissing him again, the softness of her skin, he sighed contently. "What else am I supposed to do?" 

"I dunno." Alastor sighed as they started with his hands. This wasn't so bad. When they locked his face in a mesh mask, his throat constricted automatically, and he shook his head. The ominous click scared him. Though there were holes, he was trapped. "Take this damn thing off!" 

"Richard," said the Healer. 

"Richard, Richard, shhhh. Close your eyes, my darling." 

James signaled to the Healers as Alastor started taking calming breaths. He relaxed and listened as she started humming Debussy’s “Clair de Lune”. Alastor wondered if she could play this. As he lay there and played this question back in his mind, he decided it was indeed a stupid question. Given her skill, she could probably play anything by ear. He imagined her playing the tune on her violin. 

When she stepped away for a moment, he called out for her, so she came back and held his aching hands. The Healer's spell felt like tiny, prickling needles. He equated this to getting a tattoo, though Alastor had none of those. "You're doing great, Richard. Nearly there. It's almost over." 

Finished in minutes, the Healers took off the mask and set it aside. Alastor drank a Calming Draught, although he didn't feel he needed it. When they handed him the mirror, he tensed. His reflection showed him a horrifying canvas. Oddly enough, and he credited this to the draught, he found it wasn't so bad. The Healers told him to rest and left them alone again. James, nervous, patted his hands and pressed them to her lips. 

"Your fiancé's going to have a field day," Alastor warned her, but he didn't tell her to stop. She possessed a rare quality for an Auror, and Alastor hoped the career wouldn't beat it out of her. He'd seen more than his fair share in the last eight years. "You're affectionate, Miss James." 

She set his hands at his sides and tucked him in. "It's good practice for when I make those babies, sir. Because it's what I'm good for. And it's Dixon." 

"Ah. Of course." Alastor licked his dry lips and groaned when she applied lip balm to them. She helped him into a sitting position and filled a plastic cup with cold water with a simple spell. If he didn't see it pouring from her wand tip, he wouldn't have taken it. On second thought, he handed it back to her. "Taste." 

"Mr. Moody." She rolled her eyes when he threw the name Dixon back at her. After his experience at the bar, he wasn't accepting a drink freely anymore. She took a sip to humor him. "It's nice. Am I your poison taster now? I poured that drink for you, mind you." 

Alastor thanked her because this had not occurred to him. He set the drink on the bedside cabinet and waited ten minutes. James didn't keel over or start foaming at the mouth or anything, so he took this as good enough. She did, however, look severely pissed off, especially when he asked for a refill. She tasted it again and they went back to their conversation. 

The question was why. A lot of their work revolved around what Alastor referred to as the "questioning words": what, when, why, how, and whom. They answered everything in investigation. Who was this woman? Why would she pull out a random act of violence? He put a lot of people away, but why would she matter? Why would any of it matter? 

"Do you remember what this woman looked like, James?" 

"Yes." 

"Can you sketch for me?" Alastor put her artistic skills on the spot. He asked her to conjure quill, parchment, and ink. 

She said she couldn't draw too well. She was a violinist, a musician, not an artist. However, she levitated the tools and tapped her wand to her temple. The way she did this, Alastor Moody was reminded of Albus Dumbledore leaning over a Pensieve. Those things were rare, Pensieves, but the glimmering thought was like a strand of hair. The quill, not a Quick Quotes Quill, a simple quill, skated across the surface of the parchment. 

It crafted the woman's face and her curly locks perfectly. Alastor knew this was a face he'd never forget. She'd scarred him for life, but he needed to see something tangible. When the drawing had been finished, he stared at for hours and hours. It wasn't that the art was particularly good or done a good hand. When an Auror got case after case, a lot fell through the cracks. 

The Healers and James told him to rest and get some sleep, but the faces blended together. It turned into an endless paper trial leading to nowhere. Outside of enough food and water for the pain medications, he refused special treatment. He refused visitors. The following morning, holding the sketch to the light, it dawned on him. This was Alecto Carrow. 

.

Three years ago, he'd accidentally killed her sister in a duel. The Carrow girl, an innocent caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, had paid the price for his careless mistake. 

 

He requested Miss James for every assignment that required a partner. Even when he didn’t need a wife, he dragged her along, and she jumped at the opportunity like an eager student answering a question. Especially with his new haggard makeover, what woman would want to even pretend to be his wife? 

Over the last couple of years, they'd grown as friends. Good friends stretched it a bit much. When she broke it off with the good olde fiancé, she ended up at his flat and they drank. They did a lot of drinking. He enjoyed her company on the weekends, and she dragged him off to something called a cinema. 

She was Muggle-born. When he asked how she earned her Muggle money, James pointed out a few corners on the street. When he gave her a questioning look, she conjured her violin and kicked open the battered case as she danced round like a fairy. He caught her paper bag and watched her for an hour. As it was a Saturday night, she continued playing in the rain until the crowd parted and the weather finally won out. 

Soaked and laughing madly after she packed up her instrument, she danced around like a drunken fool. James was sober. Alastor smiled and dragged her home. As they were on assignment, they lived in a third floor flat the Ministry used for assignments. When they got inside, she kicked off her heels, leaving them on the floor along with the violin case and started kissing him. 

"It's such a rush. You've no idea." James went to go sit on the couch as he chilled the wine. Alastor cast a Chilling Charm and returned to the sitting room with wine and glasses. He pointed his wand at the grate and flames erupted there. She had two glasses, though he barely nursed his. She asked for another. 

"Stealing money from Muggles?" He raised his eyebrows and set the bottle aside. He didn't get it. It was a good thing they checked candidates records before letting them join the ranks. "Oh, I imagine you're quite the tricksy thief, Miss James."

She laughed, a sound he loved, and they clinked glasses. When he asked if he was taking the couch tonight, she set her empty glass next to the one he'd barely touched. She took off her undergarments and straddled him. 

"You're drunk, Miss James," he said, sighing when she kissed him. He groaned when she unzipped his trousers. She asked him if he wanted her to stop. Whilst his head said yes, the rest of him said no. He loved when she whispered seductively in his ear. "We shouldn't ...". 

"You're my husband, Mr. Ross." She sighed when he gave up and got comfortable. "That feels good. You've never done this?" 

He cupped her breast and shook his head. She moaned. He gestured at his face as they slowed down. "The drink helps?" 

"What's wrong with this face?" She shifted position and sat on his lap. She caressed his scars and turned his face towards the light. “I see only you, sir.” 

"Lenore." 

"Say it again. You never say my name." She kissed him again, making it hard for Alastor to string coherent thoughts together. 

"Miss James." He sighed when she made a tutting noise and shook her fingers at him. He'd often thought if this Auror thing didn't work out, she'd make a fine strict teacher. He couldn't recall her cover name; there were a handful of names she'd used. "Mary? Sarah? Tiffany?" 

"It's Norah, fool." She nipped playfully at his neck. 

"Well, I was getting there. Get up." Alastor fixed his trousers as he walked into the kitchen. "How many times have I told you to pick a couple of names and stick with them? You make me look stupid. You're very good, by the way, thank you, Norah." 

Playing along with her game, he mouthed, “Lenore.” 

"Well, as we've been married for seven years, George, I thought you tired of this old thing. George or Richard? Richard or George? I'm so confused." 

"Very amusing." He poured two cups of tea and handed her one when he returned to the sitting room. "What does this mean?" 

"It's a name, Alastor. You pick one." James sipped her tea and frowned at his lopsided expression. "Oh, this? It's ... it's nothing. It's scratching an inch." 

"Scratching an inch, Lenore?" 

"I'd be fine with it, you know. You're really talented. If you wanted ... you've got to get lonely, Alastor. We're friends." She patted his knee. "Like brother and sister." 

"Except we scratch an inch?" Alastor worked a fifty-hour work week, and he knew she did the same. This didn't count whenever they got slammed with cases. He took her cup and set it aside. They made out and he ran his hands up her body. "Brothers and sisters don't do this, Norah. You're more." 

"Alastor. We can't." Lenore got to her feet and cleared the coffee table with a casual flick of her wand. She slipped on her underwear and went to take a shower. When she came back, he held her in his arms and played with her damp hair. 

"Why not?" he asked gruffly. He ran his gnarled fingers through her hair. The shampoo intoxicated him. "I love your hair." 

"Your mother for one." James turned around to face him when Alastor snorted. What did his mother's opinion matter? He was twenty-eight and could do as he damn well pleased, thank you very much. They made love again on the floor by the fireplace. Lenore caught her breath when he rolled onto his side. "Damn." 

"Want to go again, wife?" 

"No. I hoped the first time was a fluke." She got up and tied her dressing gown, shaking her head. He promised not to distract her again. "Do you know what happens to people like me?" 

"You're an exceptional Auror," he said. 

"Thank you. I know that, but thank you." Lenore checked the fire and started pacing the sitting room. Alastor looked up her and reminded her both his parents were Aurors. He gave his mother, Diana, as an example, and Lenore writhed her hands as if she were in actual physical pain. "Diana isn't normal." 

Alastor, insulted, sat up and fixed his clothes. "I'm sorry? You wish you could be my mother." 

"Yeah, I do. She's a gift from God." A smile touched Lenore's lips as she went back the other way, and Alastor, caught between anger and flattery, merely sat there. "She took no leave after having you because she feared they'd edge her out. Who returns to work three days after giving birth? Have you read her cases?" 

"Lenore, come on." Alastor grew up reading his parents' triumphs. His father became head of department at the young age of forty, the youngest to hold that post. 

"Exactly! Look at you. You're ... you're amazing. Other Aurors respect you simply because you're you. And it's not because of your name, Alastor." She pointed at herself, saying she didn't deserve to stand by his side. Some Muggle-born from Reading? When he suggested they get married, she laughed her head off. 

"All right." Alastor, dejected, told himself she at least didn't cry when he kissed her anymore. "Never mind." 

"It's not. That's my point! You're saying the right thing, you are, but you said yourself you don't believe in marriage." She slapped her hands together and turned and faced him. "Marry you? What comes next? A baby. I'll say I'll go back, for that's what they always say, but then we'll have another. I like kids, so I'll be fine. And I'll be ruined." 

"My mother," said Alastor. He scratched his chin, thinking perhaps this wasn't the best argument. "You know what? I take that back. She said I was a mistake." 

Lenore laughed so hard she cried. 

"Way to go, Diana. No, no, I swear to God, she said, 'Alastor, I love you, son, but you weren't supposed to happen. I messed up, and by the time I realized it, I wanted to kill your father.' Her words, not mine." Alastor shrugged fairly, seeing his mother's point, because he wanted no children himself. Especially not accidental ones. "Later on, she amended that to the best mistake she ever made. Because I'm me. Stop laughing, Lenore." 

Crossing her legs, She ran off to the bathroom. 

"Lovely woman."

Alastor laid back on the carpet and closed his eyes. The Ministry of Magic owned him. Even as he closed his eyes, he pictured things a little ways down the roads. They'd live in a nice house in London. They'd have a toddler, maybe a dog, and Lenore would be pregnant with a second child. She'd raise them alone because he'd have to work. He would not go for head of department because Alastor hated the administrative paper stuff, but he'd stay with her. 

"What're you doing?" She stood over him, brushing her teeth. 

"Thinking. You don't do that in here, Miss James, that's disgusting." Alastor rolled his eyes when she went to finish up in the kitchen. "So, why did nobody tell me my mother's not human?" 

"Because you're you." Lenore tapped her rinsed toothbrush with her wand and it disappeared. "Did we get this foolish notion of marriage out of your head?" 

"Yes. Miss James?" 

"Back to that, are we?" Lenore ran her fingers through her hair as she went back in the sitting room. "Yes, Mr. Moody?" 

"That man. Your fiancé. He was a fool." 

Alastor said good night and headed upstairs. She usually got the bed without question. When she came up and climbed into bed with him, Lenore mentioned how it was nice to not feel like she slept in a prison cell. On their first assignment, she'd complained that she'd felt like a prisoner. She commented on the food, too, but she left the drink alone. 

 

He thought she'd move on. Alastor wanted her to have the husband and the children she'd insisted she could live without. What in the ruddy hell did she see in him? When children saw him, they stared and ran the other way. He disguised himself whenever possible, especially in the city, because it felt more comfortable for everyone involved. 

As time passed, he learned things. The conviction rate was an impressive one over the next five years, and he rarely got inquiries filed against him. Lenore got promotion after promotion, and his mother even bothered congratulating her on a few saves. They didn't stay together because it was indecent, and they weren't married. 

"My mother keeps asking me why I'm not married." She no longer wore the engagement ring, but they'd settled on a wedding band for undercover assignments. She patted his chest. 

"How old are you?" He stared at the ceiling and patted her shoulder. 

"Twenty-eight." It was 1961. This meant something. Even though women were slowly gaining ground in the Muggle world, a woman's place stayed at the hearth. The home. It was like this in the wizarding world, too, although women held more power. "I should've been a son." 

"No, no." He wiped the sleepiness from his eyes. She'd woken him up with a pleasant surprise. Although they had said no sleepovers, he'd bent this rule on the weekends. He sighed, content, when she disappeared under the covers and started playing her game. "Good girl." 

Lenore played him like she played the damn fiddle. When a head floated in his fireplace, he sighed and listened to the man’s raspy tone. The Ministry never took a day off. Even on Sundays, no matter which Auror was on call, his name got tossed around. Why not Diana and John's boy? Yeah, he had no hopes at a life. Lenore had stopped, listening. When the Auror disappeared, she lay her head on his chest, wrapped in a cocoon. 

"No matinee cinema?" She frowned at him, pouting. 

"Nope. All right. This thing we're doing? That face you're making?" He mimicked Lenore as best he could, though she pulled it off better. Alastor had taken no notes, although he always kept quill, ink, and parchment on his bedside table. He got up and pulled on some clean robes. "We're dating, Miss James. You and me? We're an item." 

"We're not." Lenore pointed at the band on his finger and snuggled in the bed; she moved over to his side. 

"People talk." He pulled on his shoes.

"They say you're mad. It's not because you talk to yourself." Lenore circled back to this so often Alastor found it wearing. 

“I don't have time for this,” he said. 

“You never have time for anything.” 

Lenore complained of this a lot, too. Funnily enough, Alastor swore she preferred to argue for the hell of it, so he’d didn't entertain her. In an interrogation, the interviewer held all the cards. If he shut it down, she got nothing from it. After saying he’d see her sometime this afternoon, he left out the front door. 

He should’ve taken off the wedding band. Despite the fact that he was undercover as a Mr. Jones, he hadn't needed his wife along for the ride on this one. Why did he ask her to marry him that one time? If they had married, it would have satisfied her mother, and his father wouldn't have been too fussed about it either. Thinking this was going to be nothing but a quick run, he left the ring on and continued on his way. 

He arrived at the Apparition point five minutes later, but he wasn’t alone. A little fat boy dressed in smart clothing and an Ivy cap stood back against a wall. A man, a wizard, stood over him brandishing a wand in one hand and a pipe in the other. Running late, Alastor almost gave a hurried apology and continued on his way, but something in the boy’s eyes distracted him. 

Alastor stepped forward cautiously, careful not to make any assumptions. He put the assignment on the back burner. He asked if this man was this boy’s father. The man said yes, a definite yes. The boy hesitated. 

“Sir, I suggest you continue own your way,” said Alastor, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. The boy, like most of the children Alastor met along the way, didn't know which man to be more afraid of. Was it the pipe manic or the haggard freak? Alastor, rolling his eyes at the wizard, flashed his I.D. badge. 

“That ain’t you,” said the man. Alastor got this a lot actually, for the moving photograph hadn't been updated since the freak accident. 

“This child is no more than nine,” said Alastor, pointing out the real issue here. He spoke calmly, though his patience evaporated fast. He smelled spirits on the man's breath. “Leave.” 

“I just told you he’s mine,” growled the man. He struck Alastor with the pipe; it scratched the side of his face. 

Alastor took out his wand and pointed it at the man’s chest. The boy, scared out of his mind, cowered behind him. Alastor couldn’t see straight anymore, but he took his best shot. He missed. Cursing, he ordered the boy to stay put. There were footsteps, which meant there was more than one. Reorganizing badly, he stopped and listened. He’d been an exercise like this once blindfolded. 

The drinker, the pipe wielder, backed off, wheezing. Something slapped against skin; someone struck Alastor four times with the serrated pipe, though he paused before the fourth strike. Why? Dragging himself from the Apparition point, Alastor heard bone crack, and they pulled him back. Alastor screamed, focusing on the boy; he marked him as a focal point. There were two faint pops; two of them had Disapparated. 

He heard the last one’s raspy voice as Alastor’s limb got ripped from his body. He’d heard this voice earlier this morning. He felt it; this wasn't just broken bone. He’d broken his foot before. Pale and winded, he aimed his wand and caught the idiot with the distinct tone in the face. The man fell backwards. 

“Shock, you’re in shock,” Alastor told himself. 

This was a normal reaction, and he’d be fine. Any self-respecting matron could reattach a limb. What was proper protocol for this? With a severed limb, wouldn’t the blood go to the vital areas? He didn’t know. Red spilled onto the grass as the fourth attacker fled. Breathing shallowly, he spotted his leg by a tree. He couldn't stop the bleeding. 

“Boy, boy, come here,” he said. The boy froze, terrified. “What’s your name? Let's start with that.” 

“Barney Cuffe.” 

“Okay, good, that’s good. I’m Alastor.” 

The boy nodded mechanically. As Alastor wasn't fond of children, this painstaking exchange could last forever, so he tiptoed around this. He scooted and grabbed the I.D. badge and tossed the bloody thing to Barney. He wanted to ask the kid to fetch his leg or craft or craft a tourniquet, but these things were clearly out of the question. The boy caught the badge. 

“Number seven, William’s Way,” said Alastor, pointing his bloody finger in the direction. “You ask for Jones … Sarah Jones, you hear me? You give her that. You run. You run like your life depends on it.” 

Barney nodded, his sweaty face determined. His Ivy cap fell off his head. 

“You ask for who?” 

“Sarah Jones.” 

“Sarah. I … I need Sarah. Yes. Go!” 

Alastor waited until the boy’s hammy legs disappeared before he started crafting a plan. He pointed his shaky wand arm at his severed leg. Instead of zooming towards his outstretched hand, the limb rolled off in the opposite direction. When he tried again, angry with himself, he blasted the thing apart. Shocked, he dropped his wand, and lay there. 

Minutes later, though he lost all sense of time, Lenore ran onto the site with the fat boy following close behind. As she was with a very confused Muggle boy, she didn’t Apparate there. She took in the scene, her wand held aloft, and dropped to her knees by his side. As he muttered about Obvilating the fat boy, Alastor slipped away. 

 

If Mr. Dixon or Mr. Jones had suffered those injuries, Alastor Moody could have walked off scot free. But he was these men. They might’ve been able to save the leg, but he’d messed that up in his desperation to gain control of the situation. Why hadn't he waited for Lenore? 

Late that afternoon, he lay in the bed at St. Mungo’s. Why was he such an idiot? He’d accepted the face. He looked like someone had carved it with a crude hand, but the face had grown on him. What if he couldn’t walk again? He had a retirement plan in place and the Auror Department would help him, but what would he do? He was a Auror. There was no backup plan. 

The Healers had stopped the infection from spreading up his leg. A boy, a fat boy, had cost him everything. Nothing would come of fat Barnabus Cuffe. The matrons came in and suggested range of motion exercises and told him there were options to get him walking again. Unless they could regrow his leg again and erase the stupidity of this day, he didn’t want to hear it. Why hadn't he asked the Auror for his badge number? 

“Your wife is here, Mr. Moody.” The Healer ducked out as Alastor threw an empty bed pan at her. 

“Alastor, don’t bite the hand that feeds you,” said Lenore. She wore a plain yellow dress and offered him his potion to ward off possible infection. 

“Go to hell.” 

“I’m already there,” she said sadly, pulling up a chair. They were on a ward this time, and the nearby patients seemed interested in Alastor’s story. He spoke to none of them. “Alastor.” 

“Please leave.” He only asked nicely once. Lenore, stupidly, ignored him. She talked to him. When he she got up to straighten something, he grabbed her by the wrist. “You are nothing! I chose you. That fiancé? You want to talk about getting back up? Nobody needs you, Miss James. That’s twice now you’ve failed me.” 

“I failed you?” Lenore stared him down and yanked her arm away. “Look around, you ass. Where are your people? The Ministry will survive without you. I have never walked away from you. Not once. If you decide to lie here and give up, that’s fine. I am your people. I …I care for you. I stay for you.” 

She gathered her things and took a deep breath before she started towards the door. “If you give up, if you quit, you fail me. That’s fine.” 

“Miss James.” Alastor counted the ceiling tiles and gathered his thoughts. What did he care if everyone heard this? He raised his voice, already annoyed with her. “Miss James! Lenore Colleen.” 

She marched back towards him. “What? I hate you.” 

“Really?” He raised his eyebrow, studying her face as she yanked the curtains closed around his bed. When he beckoned her forward. “Say that again.”

“I hate you.” Alastor reached up and stroked her cheek. He used his upper body strength to pull him up. When she spat it in his face as she said it the line with more conviction this time, he kissed her. “This is inappropriate.” 

“You’re inappropriate. I outrank you. Tell me, Miss James, who’re they going to believe?” He laughed at the panic written all over her face. He conjured a mirror and shared this moment with her. 

“Miss James.” She set the mirror aside and grinned at him. When she asked him to budge up, Alastor shook a finger at her and made a tutting noise. Lenore got the joke. 

“So, I’ve been thinking.” 

“That’s dangerous. Been hearing stuff in the walls again, have you?” 

“You … you are not funny.” Alastor stopped, wondering when she had gotten this brave with him. Lenore sat down in her chair after she pulled the curtains back. She asked him to marry her. “Seriously. Not funny. You want to spend the rest of your life with a cripple? Do you get points for that?” 

“I’m more worried about the paranoia, honestly,” she said, tapping her foot on the floor. 

“Oh, my God. You’re serious.” He studied her blank expression. “You’re insane.” 

“Says the man who only drinks from a hip flask,” she said fairly, shrugging. 

“I’m not easy, and I’m not going to change. I love you, Lenore, but I will not marry you.” 

“Alastor.” 

“No. Nothing has to change.” 

Alastor could see it. Without meaning to, he’d drag her into his hell, and he’d slowly rip her apart piece by piece. They were both Aurors, but she was not a marked target. She understood his paranoia, and he saw it coming but Lenore viewed the world differently. 

“Why not?” She failed to disguise the hurt in her tone. Lenore didn't need a husband, and she understood now. Or he hoped she did. “You love me?” 

“More than I can say, Miss James,” he said, counting the ceiling tiles again. He asked her to tell the Healers to search for a proper prosthetic. When she started towards the ward door, he called after her again. “Lenore.” 

“Yes?” 

“You are mine. My Lenore. Whatever I say to you, however I might threaten you, I want you to hear this.” 

“Yes? Use your words.” She faced him. 

“Impatient, insufferable bitch.” He was still determinedly not looking at her and stopping on tile number seventy-one. He took a deep breath. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” 

Thanking him, especially for the endearing heart-warming first part, she went to grab a wheelchair and track down the Healers together. After they drafted a rehabilitation plan, she took him outside and parked beside the derelict department store. 

Lenore conjured one of her favorite violins. After kicking it open, she gave him a mock bow and rested the violin in its proper position and got lost in the music. Alastor smiled when she switched to a fast-paced medley and started dancing around. When a small child stopped by, tugging his mother’s robes, she knelt on the ground, still playing, and the mother laughed. She tossed a few Sickles and Knuts in with the Muggle money. Lenore spun round thrice and struck up old “Clair de Lune” as Alastor tapped his foot.


End file.
